Suddenly, without warning, a passenger on the other side of the cabin sprang from his seat, a hoarse, wild cry of pain coming from his throat. He arched his back spastically, as if gasping for air, clutched first his stomach, then his chest. He crashed into the wooden divider that held magazines and airline schedules and twisted maniacally, his eyes wide, the veins in his neck purple and distended. He lurched forward and sprawled to the deck of the cabin.
It was the third man, who had joined the two drunks at the bar with the stewardess.
The next moments were chaotic. The stewardess rushed to the fallen man, observed him closely, and followed procedure. She instructed the three other passengers in the cabin to remain in their seats, placed a cushion beneath the man's head, and returned to the counter and the intercom on the wall. In seconds a male flight attendant rushed up the circular staircase; the British Airways captain emerged from the flight deck. They conferred with the stewardess over the unconscious body. The male attendant walked rapidly to the staircase, descended, and returned within a few moments with a clipboard. It was obviously the plane's manifest.
The captain stood and addressed the others in the lounge. "Will you all please return to your seats below. There's a doctor on board. He's being summoned. Thank you very much."
As Holcroft sidestepped his way down the staircase, a stewardess carrying a blanket climbed quickly past him. Then he heard the captain issue an order over the intercom. "Radio Kennedy for emergency equipment. Medical. Male passenger, name of Thornton. Heart seizure, I believe."
The doctor knelt by the prone figure stretched out on the rear seat of the lounge and asked for a flashlight The first officer hurried to the flight deck and returned with one. The doctor rolled back the eyelids of the man named Thornton, then turned and motioned for the captain to join him; he had something to say. The captain bent over; the doctor spoke quietly.
"He's dead. It's difficult to say without equipment, without tissue and blood analysis, but I don't think this man had a heart attack. I think he was poisoned. Strychnine would be my guess."
The customs inspector's office was suddenly quiet. Behind the inspector's desk sat a homicide detective from New York's Port Authority police, a British Airways clipboard in front of him. The inspector stood rigidly embarrassed to one side. In two chairs against the wall sat the captain of the 747 and the stewardess assigned to its first-class lounge. By the door was a uniformed police officer. The detective stared at the customs inspector in disbelief.
"Are you telling me that two people got off that plane, walked through sealed-off corridors into the sealed-off, guarded customs area, and vanished?"
"I can't explain it," said the inspector, shaking his head despondently. "It's never happened before."
The detective turned to the stewardess. "You're convinced they were drunk, miss?"
"Not now, perhaps," replied the girl. "I've got to have second thoughts. They drank a great deal; I'm certain of it; they couldn't have faked that. I served them. They appeared quite sloshed. Harmless, but sloshed."
"Could they have poured their drinks out somewhere? Without drinking them, I mean."
"Where?" asked the stewardess.
"I don't know. Hollow ashtrays, the seat cushions. What's on the floor?"
"Carpeting," answered the pilot.
The detective addressed the police officer by the door. "Get forensic on your radio. Have them check the carpet, the seat cushions, ashtrays. Left side of the roped-off area facing front. Dampness is enough. Let me know."
"Yes, sir." The officer left quickly, closing the door behind him.
"Of course," ventured the captain, "alcoholic tolerances vary."
"Not in the amounts the young lady described," the detective said.
"For God's sake, why is it important?" said the captain. "Obviously they're the men you want. They've vanished, as you put it. That took some planning, I daresay."
"Everything's important," explained the detective. "Methods can be matched with previous crimes. We're looking for anything. Crazy people. Rich, crazy people who jet around the world looking for thrills. Signs of psychosis, getting kicks while on a high — alcohol or narcotics, it doesn't matter. As far as we can determine, the two men in question didn't even know this Thornton; your stewardess here said they introduced themselves. Why did they kill him? And, accepting the fact that they did, why so brutally? It was strychnine, Captain, and take my word for it, it's a rough way to go."
The telephone rang. The customs inspector answered it; listened briefly, and handed it to the Port Authority detective. "It's the State Department. For you."
"State? This is Lieutenant Miles, NYPA police. Have you got the information I requested?"
"We've got it, but you won't like it-----"
"Wait a minute," Miles broke in. The door had opened and the uniformed officer had reappeared. "What have you got?" Miles asked the officer.
"The seat cushions and the carpet on the left side of the lounge are soaked."
"Then they were cold sober," said the detective, in a monotone. He nodded and returned to the telephone. "Go ahead, State. What won't I like?"
"Those passports in question were declared void more than four years ago. They belonged to two men from Flint, Michigan. Neighbors, actually; worked for the same company in Detroit. In June of 1973 they both went on a business trip to Europe and never came back."
"Why were the passports voided?"
"They disappeared from their hotel rooms. Three days later their bodies were found in the river. They'd been shot."
"Jesus! What river? Where?"
The Isar. They were in Munich, Germany."
One by one the irate passengers of Flight 591 passed through the door of the quarantined room. Their names, addresses, and telephone numbers were checked off against the 747's manifest by a representative of British Airways. Next to the representative was a member of the Port Authority police, making his own marks on a duplicate list. The quarantine had lasted nearly four hours.
Outside the room the passengers were directed down a hallway into a large cargo area, where they retrieved their inspected luggage, and headed for the doors of the main terminal. One passenger, however, made no move to leave the cargo area. Instead, this man, who carried no luggage, but had a raincoat over his arm, walked directly to a door with thick, stenciled printing on the panel.
U. S. CUSTOMS. CONTROL CENTER
AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY
Showing identification, he stepped inside.
A gray-haired man in the uniform of a high-ranking customs official stood by a steel-framed window, smoking a cigarette. At the intrusion, he turned. "I've been waiting for you," he said. "There was nothing I could do while you were quarantined."
"I had the ID card ready in case you weren't here," replied the passenger, putting the identification back into his jacket pocket.
"Keep it ready. You may still need it; the police are all over the place. What do you want to do?"
"Get out to that aircraft."
"You think they're there?"
"Yes. Somewhere. It's the only explanation."
The two men left the room and walked rapidly across the cargo area, past the numerous conveyor belts, to a steel doorway marked NO ADMITTANCE. Using a key, the customs official opened it and preceded the younger man with the raincoat through the door. They were
inside a long cinderblock tunnel that led to the field. Forty seconds later they reached another steel door, this one guarded by two men, one from U.S. Customs, the other from the Port Authority police. The gray-haired official was recognized by the former.
"Hello, Captain. Hell of a night, isn't it?"
"It's only begun, I'm afraid," said the official. "We may be involved, after all." He looked at the policeman, "This man's federal," he continued, angling his head at his companion. "I'm taking him to the five-ninety-one aircraft. There may be a narcotics connection."
The police officer seemed confused. Apparentl
y his orders were to allow no one through the door. The customs guard interceded.
"Hey, come on. This man runs all of Kennedy Airport."
The policeman shrugged and opened the door.
Outside a steady rain fell from the black night sky as pockets of mist rolled in from Jamaica Bay. The man with the customs official put on his raincoat. His movements were swift; in the hand beneath the coat held over his arm had been a gun. It was now in his belt, the buttons at his waist unfastened.
The 747 glistened under floodlights, rain streaking down its fuselage. Police and maintenance crews were everywhere, distinguished from one another by the contrasting black and orange of their slickers.
"I'll build your cover with the police inside," said the customs official, gesturing at the metal steps that swept up from the back of the truck to a door in the fuselage. "Good hunting."
The man in the raincoat nodded, not really listening. His eyes were scanning the area. The 747 was the focal point; thirty yards from it in all directions were stanchions connected by ropes, policemen at midpoints between them. The man in the raincoat was within this enclosure; he could move about freely. He turned right at the end of the parallel ropes and proceeded toward the rear of the aircraft. He nodded to the police officers at their posts, slapping his identification open casually to those whose looks were questioning. He kept peering through the rain into the faces of those entering and leaving the plane. Three quarters around the plane, he heard the angry shout of a maintenance crewman.
"What the fuck are you doing? Get that winch secure!"
The target of the outburst was another crewman, standing on the platform of a fuel truck. This crewman had no rain slicker on; his white coverall was drenched. In the driver's seat of the truck sat another crewman, also without rain apparel.
That was it, thought the man in the raincoat. The killers had worn coveralls beneath their suits. But they had not taken into consideration the possibility of rain. Except for that mistake, the escape had been planned brilliantly.
The man walked over to the fuel truck, his hand on the gun concealed beneath his raincoat. Through the rain he stared at the figure beyond the truck window, in the driver's seat; the second man was above him, to his right on the platform, turned away. The face behind the window stared back in disbelief, and instantly lurched for the far side of the seat. But the man in the raincoat was too quick. He opened the door, pulled out his revolver and fired, the gunshot muted by a silencer. The man in the seat fell into the dashboard, blood streaming out of his forehead.
At the sound of the commotion below, the second man spun around on the steel platform of the truck and looked below.
"You! In the lounge! With the newspaper!"
"Get inside the truck," commanded the man in the raincoat, his words clear through the pounding rain, his gun concealed behind the door panel.
The figure on the platform hesitated. The man with the gun looked around. The surrounding police were preoccupied with their discomfort in the downpour, hah? blinded by the floodlights. None was observing the deadly scene. The man in the raincoat reached up, grabbed the white cloth of the surviving killer's coverall, and yanked him into the frame of the open door of the fuel truck.
"You failed. Heinrich Clausen's son still lives," he said calmly. Then he fired a second shot. The killer fell back into the seat.
The man in the raincoat closed the door and put his gun back into his belt. He walked casually away, directly underneath the fuselage toward the roped-off alleyway that led to the tunnel. He could see the customs official
emerging from the 747's door, walking rapidly down the steps. They met and together headed for the door of the tunnel.
"What happened?" asked the official.
"My hunting was good. Theirs wasn't. The question is, what do we do about Holcroft?"
"That's not our concern. It's the Tinamou's. The Tina-mou must be informed."
The man in the raincoat smiled to himself, knowing his smile could not be seen in the downpour.
4
Holcroft got out of the taxi in front of his apartment on East Seventy-third Street. He was exhausted, the strain of the last three days heightened by the tragedy on board the flight. He was sorry for the poor bastard who'd had the heart attack, but furious at the Port Authority police who treated the incident as if it were an international crisis. Good Lord! Quarantined for damned near four hours! And all passengers in first class were to keep the police informed of their whereabouts for the next sixty days.
The doorman greeted him. "A short trip this time, Mr. Holcroft. But you got a lot of mail. Oh, and a message."
"A message?"
"Yes, sir," said the doorman, handing him a business card. "This gentleman came in asking for you last night. He was very agitated, you know what I mean?"
"Not exactly." Noel took the card and read the name: PETER BALDWIN, ESQ.; it meant nothing to him.
WELLINGTON SECURITY SYSTEMS, LTD. THE STRAND, LONDON, WlA. There was a telephone number underneath. Holcroft had never heard of the British company. He turned the card over; on the back was scribbled ST. REGIS
HOTEL. RM. 411.
"He insisted that I ring your apartment in case you'd gotten back and I didn't see you come in. I told him that was crazy."
"He could have telephoned me himself," said Noel, walking toward the elevator. "I'm in the book."
"He told me he tried, but your phone was out of order." The elevator door closed on the man's last words. Holcroft read the name again as the elevator climbed to the fifth floor. Peter Baldwin, Esq. Who was he? And since when was his phone out of order?
He opened his apartment door and reached for the light switch on the wall. Two table lamps went on simultaneously; Noel dropped his suitcase and stared in disbelief at the room.
Nothing was the same as it was three days ago! Nothing. Every piece of furniture, every chair, every table, every vase and ashtray, was moved into another position. His couch had been in the center of the room; it was now in the far-right corner. Each sketch and painting on the walls had been shifted around, none where it had been before! The stereo was no longer on the shelf; instead it was neatly arranged on a table. His bar, always at the rear of the living room, was now at the left of the door. His drafting board, usually by the window, was now by itself ten feet in front of him, the stool somewhere else — God knew where. It was the strangest sensation he had ever had. Everything familiar, yet not familiar at all. Reality distorted, out of focus.
He stood in the open doorway. Images of the room as it had been kept reappearing in front of his eyes, only to be replaced by what was in front of him now.
"What happened?" He heard his own words, unsure they were his at first
He ran to the couch; the telephone was always by the couch, on a table at its right arm. But the couch had been moved, and the telephone had not been moved with it. He spun around toward the center of the room. Where was the table? It was not there; an armchair was where the table should be. The telephone was not there, either! Where was the telephone? Where was the table? Where the hell was the telephone?
It was by the window. There was his kitchen table by the living-room window, and the telephone was on top of it. The large center window that looked out at the apartment building across the wide courtyard below. The telephone wires had been taken out from under the wall-to-wall carpeting and moved to the window. It was crazy! Who would take the trouble to lift tacked-down carpeting and move telephone wires?
He raced to the table, picked up the phone, and pressed the intercom button that connected him to the switchboard in the lobby. He stabbed the signal button repeatedly; there was no answer. He kept his finger on it; finally, the harried voice of Jack the doorman answered.
"All right, all right. This is the lobby-----"
"Jack, it's Mr. Holcroft. Who came up to my apartment while I was away?"
"Who came what, sir?"
"Up to my apartment!"
"Were you
robbed, Mr. Holcroft?"
"I don't know yet. I just know that everything's been moved around. Who was here?"
"Nobody. I mean, nobody I know of. And the other guys didn't say anything. I'm relieved at four in the morning by Ed, and he's off at noon. Louie takes over then."
"Can you call them?"
"Hell, I can call the police!"
The word was jarring. "Police" meant questions — Where had he been? Whom had he seen? — and Noel was not sure he wanted to give any answers.
"No, don't call the police. Not yet. Not until I see if anything's missing. It might be someone's idea of a joke. I'll call you back."
"I'll call the other guys."
Holcroft hung up. He sat on the wide windowsill and appraised the room. Everything. Not a single piece of furniture was where it had been before!
He was holding something in his left hand: the business Card. PETER BALDWIN, ESQ.
". . . he was very agitated, you know what I mean? . . . he insisted I ring your apartment . . . your phone was out of order.. . ."
ST. REGIS HOTEL. RM. 411.
Noel picked up the phone and dialed. He knew the number well; he lunched frequently at the King Cole Grill.
"Yes? Baldwin here." The voice was British, the greeting abrupt.
"This is Noel Holcroft, Mr. Baldwin. You tried to reach me."
"Thank heavens! Where are you?"
"Home. In my apartment. I just got back."
The Holcroft Covenant Page 4